The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife Read online

  ‘When I asked Rashad for help, he said that he would buy the house and keep it in his name so that Scott couldn’t get his hands on it…’

  Tilda whirled round, depth-charged by that information out of her recollections and back into the all-too-threatening present. On every front that admission came as a shock to Tilda. ‘Are you telling me that Rashad also owns this house?’ she gasped in horror.

  ‘Yes. At first that made me feel that we were all safe and secure!’ the older woman suddenly sobbed.

  ‘Why don’t you make a cup of tea while I take a look at some of these letters?’ Tilda suggested, hoping that that routine task would help her mother to calm down. Yet her own self-discipline was being equally challenged by what she had discovered. Although she was determined not to give way to a growing sense of panic, she could not stop Rashad’s name from rhyming and purring like a derisive echo at the back of her mind.

  Eager to hide the fact that she was frantic with worry, Tilda sorted the mostly unopened letters into rough piles according to date. But flashes of memory kept on attacking her from all sides: Rashad, so breathtakingly handsome she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him the first time she saw him; Rashad, the last time she had seen him, kissing another woman. Having dumped her, he had moved on with breathtaking speed. Her mind was quick to back away from that final recollection and she began reading the letters. Silence fell while she speedily absorbed their contents. Unhappily what she learned from the exercise was not good news.

  To begin with, Rashad, or more probably his representatives in the matter, had engaged a London legal firm while ensuring that Beth received advice from another solicitor. The purchase price of the house had been fair. A further substantial amount of money had been advanced to settle several outstanding debts. Wincing as she totted up figures in her head, Tilda became more and more tense. If anything, her mother had underestimated the size of her debt. A contract that allowed for every eventuality had been signed. Her mother had been given a whole year to get her affairs in order before she was asked whether she wished to take out a mortgage to buy the house back or instead opt to pay rent as a tenant. Tilda came on a copy of the tenancy agreement that her mother had signed.

  ‘What made you decide to sign a tenancy agreement?’ Tilda queried dry-mouthed.

  ‘The solicitor came to see me here and I had to make a choice about what I was going to do.’

  ‘But you haven’t paid any rent, have you?’ her daughter prompted, having already seen a worrying missive that referred to rent arrears.

  ‘No. I couldn’t afford to.’ Beth eyed the younger woman fearfully.

  ‘Not even one payment?’ Tilda thought that there should have been enough income to at least pay the rent but, as quickly, blamed herself for not having taken more of an interest in the family finances.

  ‘No, not one.’ Beth would not meet her daughter’s troubled gaze, and Tilda wondered uneasily if there was something that she wasn’t being told.

  ‘Mum…are there any other problems?’ Tilda pressed.

  Beth gave her a frightened look and shook her head. ‘Now that you’ve seen the letters, what do you think?’

  Shelving the ESP that was giving her the suspicion there was something else amiss, Tilda knew she could not say what she thought about the letters. Her mother was a loving and caring parent, adored by every one of her five children. She was also extremely kind and hard-working, but when it came to dealing with money or problem husbands Beth was pretty much useless. By ignoring the letters, the older woman had acted as her own worst enemy. More recent missives had taken on the cold, clipped edge of threat. They were facing eviction from their home. Tilda felt as if spooky fingers were tightening round her lungs, for the challenge of delivering such terrifying news to her mother was at that moment beyond her. Beth was too frightened even to walk down the drive to the front gate, so how could she possibly cope with the awful upheaval and disgrace of being literally cast out on the street? And if she could not cope, how would it affect Tilda’s four younger siblings?

  ‘Tilda…’ Beth surveyed her daughter with a heavy heart ‘…I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you about this months ago, but I felt so guilty about having married Scott. Everything that’s gone wrong for us since then is my fault.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself for marrying him. He didn’t show his true colours until after the wedding and now he’s out of our lives, so let’s not go back there,’ Tilda urged in a deliberately upbeat tone. ‘Stop worrying about this. I’ll look into it and see what I can sort out.’

  The buzz of the doorbell sounded extraordinarily loudly in the strained silence.

  Dismay tightening her features as she checked her watch, Beth flew upright. ‘That’ll be a customer. I’d better splash my face with some cold water!’

  ‘Go ahead. I’ll answer the door.’ Tilda was grateful for that timely interruption, for she did not want to be tempted into soothing her mother by offering empty assurances that everything would come all right. Even in the grip of shock as Tilda still was, she could see little prospect of a happy ending to her family’s predicament. After all, only repayment of the debt could settle it and they were all as poor as church mice.

  Frustration hurtled through Tilda, who felt as if her brain was suffering from a stress overload. Why, oh, why, had she given up a steady job to pursue an academic qualification for three years? But the decision had made sense at the time, offering as it did the prospect of a career with eventual excellent earning potential. Unfortunately it meant that now she had no savings and had a large student loan to pay back. Even though she was currently working full time again in a position with good prospects, she was a junior member of staff and her salary was not generous.

  Tilda found her former employer, Evan Jerrold, on the doorstep. Once again Evan had his arms wrapped round a fat roll of curtain fabric. The sight would have provoked a smile from Tilda on a normal day, because in old-fashioned parlance-and he was an old-fashioned man-Evan was sweet on her mother. After a chance meeting with Beth one day when he had given Tilda a lift into work, the older man had gradually become a regular visitor. For months now he had been dreaming up new furnishing projects that gave him ample opportunity to ask Beth to advise him on colour, fabric and style.

  Tilda showed Evan through to her mother’s workroom at the back of the house. The kindly older man had originally encouraged Tilda to give up her office job and go to university. An academic, who had inherited a thriving family firm, Evan had ensured that Tilda always had a job there during her college vacations. Tilda went into the kitchen to gather up the letters and take them upstairs. She was thinking sadly that Evan, the survivor of a bitter and costly divorce battle, would run a mile once he heard about her mother’s financial embarrassments. But, in all probability, nothing more than friendship would have developed between Beth and Evan, anyway, Tilda told herself in exasperation. Since when had she believed in fairy tales?

  Her own workaholic father, whom she barely remembered, had been knocked down and killed by a drunk driver when she was five years old. Her mother’s subsequent second marriage had been a disaster. Bullied and cowed by Scott, Beth had been in no fit state to protect her children. In Tilda’s last year at school, her stepfather had made her work at night in a sleazy club run by one of his cronies.

  Tilda forced her straying thoughts back to the present and scolded herself for that momentary slide back into the past. What was needed was action, not time-wasting regret for facts that could not be changed! She reached for the phone and rang the number of the legal firm on the letterhead to ask for an appointment. Humble pleading on the score of extreme urgency won her a late-morning slot the next day. Having arranged several days’ leave from her current employment as an accounts assistant, she called her bank and asked how much money she would be allowed to borrow. Her worst fears were fulfilled when the loan officer pointed out that she had no assets and was still on probation in her current job. As she had neve
r been a quitter she contacted three other financial institutions in the hope of receiving a more promising response before she accepted defeat on that issue.

  The following day she put on a black trouser suit and caught a train to London. She made a punctual appearance at the imposing legal offices of Ratburn, Ratburn and Mildrop in the City. Ushered into the presence of an urbane, well-turned-out lawyer, she was tense and within minutes it seemed that every word she uttered was worthy only of a stony rebuttal.

  ‘I’m unable to discuss your mother’s confidential affairs with you, Miss Crawford.’ An explanation of Beth’s agoraphobia merely led to a further question. ‘Unless, of course, you have acquired power of attorney to speak and act on Mrs Morrison’s behalf?’

  ‘No…but I was once quite friendly with Prince Rashad,’ Tilda heard herself say, desperate to prove her credentials in some way and win a serious hearing.

  The middle-aged lawyer dealt her a cool appraisal. ‘I am not aware that His Royal Highness is involved in this matter.’

  Tilda became even tenser. ‘I appreciate that the loan was ostensibly advanced by a business called Metropolis-’

  ‘I cannot discuss confidential matters with a third party.’

  Her full soft mouth compressed. ‘Then let me talk it over with Rashad direct. Please tell me how I can get in touch with him quickly.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’ Before she could pursue the point, the older man stood up to signify that the meeting was at an end.

  Less than two minutes later, Tilda was back out on the street again. She was mortified by the reception she had received. She caught the bus to the opulent Embassy of Bakhar, where her request for a phone number or meeting with the Crown Prince was treated with a smiling but dismissive courtesy that gained her not a millimetre of access. The level of security and discretion that appeared to surround Rashad’s movements was daunting. Direct contact with him was clearly not to be had for the asking. Her only option was to leave her phone number, which would be passed on to his staff. Throughout her unsatisfactory visit, she was quite unaware of a bearded older man with silvering hair, who had left his office the moment he had seen her name pop up on his computer screen. A troubled frown on his stolid features, he watched her depart from his vantage point on the landing above.

  Determined not to be beaten in her quest, Tilda went straight to the nearest library and used the Internet. She was initially infuriated by the discovery that Rashad was currently in London and yet nobody had been prepared to admit that. But when she noticed the date of the charity benefit he was to attend and realised that it was being staged that very day, it lent wings to her thoughts and her feet.

  At the reception desk of the exclusive hotel where the benefit was being held, Tilda learned that admission was by invitation only. She paid for an eye-wateringly expensive soft drink so that she could sit in the hotel foyer. Sophisticated women in fashionable cocktail frocks walked in and out of the crowded ballroom. A door was propped wide to facilitate the exit of a man in a wheelchair, and Tilda caught a glimpse of a very tall, powerful male standing about thirty feet inside the room.

  Her heart lurched as if she had suddenly been thrown high in the air without warning. It was Rashad, and there was something so achingly familiar in the proud angle of his dark head that she rose to her feet without being aware of it. Her attention roved from the crisp luxuriance of his cropped black hair to the bold lineaments of his strong profile. Below the bright ballroom lights, his skin had the rich sheen of gold, showcasing his well-defined black brows, a thin aristocratic blade of a nose and a fierce sensual mouth set above a hard, masculine jaw line. He was incredibly good-looking in a very exotic, un-English way. Back in the days when she had innocently dreamt of a future as an artist, she had drawn his face over and over again, obsessively attached to every detail of his hawkish features that might have been lifted from an ancient Berber hanging.

  He was surrounded by a circle of people. She was willing him to turn his handsome head and notice her at the same moment that she registered that candy-pink female fingernails rested on his arm. For a split second she could not credit that she had not immediately seen the gorgeous brunette in her flimsy short dress flashing an intimate smile up at him. It was as though Tilda’s mind had censored that part of her view, only letting her see what she could handle. The last time she had seen Rashad in the flesh five years earlier he had also been with another woman, a sight that had ensured that an extra large dollop of humiliation had been added to her agonised sense of rejection.

  Now, as then, pride and anger came to Tilda’s rescue. Just as her eyes swerved back onto him, Rashad finally looked in her direction. His keen, dark-as-ebony gaze was trained on her. Not a muscle moved on his lean, strong face. He blanked her as if she didn’t exist and her view was cut off as the door swung shut again. In shock at that lack of reaction, Tilda turned pale as death. She went back to Reception and asked to leave a message for Prince Rashad. She hovered while it was being delivered but the minutes ticked slowly past and no answer came back. She sat down again, hollow with physical hunger, for she had not eaten since early morning. But she had no option other than to wait. She dared not leave while there was still an ounce of hope that he might respond to her request for a meeting.

  It was almost three hours before Rashad chose to make his departure. Several powerfully built Arab men emerged from the function room and fanned out in an advance guard before Rashad strode into view. He had fantastic carriage, moving with the grace of a prowling panther. His sinuous female companion had to almost run to keep up in her high heels. Tilda could not have broken through the tight cordon of security that kept lesser mortals at bay in the royal presence. She watched as the paparazzi outside flashed cameras and shouted questions. Rashad ignored them and moved down the steps.

  ‘Miss Crawford?’

  A dark-skinned older man extended a card to her with a quiet nod and walked on out the door.

  Blinking in surprise, Tilda studied the card, which contained an address and a time late the following afternoon. She sucked in a tremulous breath. Rashad was giving her the chance to plead her family’s case. But if she had not dutifully waited all those hours like a lowly supplicant for His Royal Highness’s attention, she would not have got the concession. Anger stirring afresh, she recognised how Rashad made her suffer: first the whip, then the reward-but only if appropriate humility was displayed.

  Reclining back into the comfort of his limousine, Rashad thought about Tilda Crawford, defiantly clad in the sort of masculine clothes he had never liked. Why did she only dress up like that for his benefit? Nothing could detract from such striking natural beauty. Even with her mermaid’s mass of curling pale blond hair tied back, her turquoise eyes and the heart-shaped pout of her full pink mouth bare of cosmetic enhancement, she had held every male eye in her vicinity.

  Rashad had enjoyed keeping her waiting. He knew what kind of woman she was and he would give no quarter when he dealt with her. In truth, being very tough came naturally to Rashad, who had found restraint and tenderness a much greater challenge. While engaged in picturing Tilda he discovered that a sense of unlimited power could also act as an aphrodisiac. The eager brunette by his side rested a slim, caressing hand on his lean, powerful thigh. With a languid forefinger Rashad depressed the button to screen the windows…

  CHAPTER TWO

  TILDA sat rigid-backed on the crowded bus that carried her the last mile to her destination. Garbed in what her mother persisted in calling her ‘Sunday best’-a long black coat that she wore every winter to go to church-she was striving not to let nerves get the better of her temper.

  Unfortunately every time she recalled how Rashad had just ignored her at the hotel, a sense of grievance grew inside her. What had she ever done to deserve such discourteous treatment? After all, it was not as though she had even had the slightest suspicion that her mother had asked him for financial help. She pressed cold hands to her hot cheeks as th
ough she could cool the mortified heat that that fact still awakened in her. The whole ghastly business was threatening to tear her apart.

  Metropolis Enterprises was housed in a massive contemporary office block. The company comprised a long list of different businesses, which were displayed on the inaugural plaque in the foyer. The building had been officially opened by Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar. She travelled up to the top floor in a glass lift. In the waiting area she sucked in a long desperate breath. For just a moment she thought she couldn’t do it, couldn’t face asking for time and understanding from a guy who had once torn her heart and her self-esteem to pieces.

  ‘Miss Crawford-come this way.’

  Tilda straightened her stiff shoulders and followed the male PA. She was shown into a very large but empty office. Barely had the door closed behind her, however, than another opened across the room and Rashad entered.

  His raw physical impact hit her like a tidal wave that swept away rational thought. His fabulously tailored black pinstripe suit oozed designer style, emphasising his wide, powerful shoulders, lean hips and long straight legs. Her heart felt as though it were pounding like mad somewhere in the region of her throat. Meeting eyes as amber gold as a hot sunset, she found it equally hard to catch her breath. For her it was like time rolling back and her response was immediate: her mouth ran dry, her slender length tensing with anticipation. It had been five long years since she had experienced that unsettling little clenching sensation way down low in her tummy and it seriously rattled her.